


Woven

by Shachaai



Series: Children of Three [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, Gaslamp Fantasy, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 01:37:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4081540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the words and faith of those around him, Arthur – once Kirkland, now Queen of Spades – cannot quite bring himself to believe in <i>fate</i>. For, if all things are destined, that would mean he is <i>meant</i> to love a political disaster just waiting to happen, and both their lives have been leading to this. (They call him Francis, and, oh, what an alluring disaster he is.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woven

**Author's Note:**

> An extraordinarily belated New Year’s fic for miss-fiery, to make up for a missing event gift. One of your wishes was for some cardverse FrUK, so I hope you’ll enjoy this (especially since the universe this is set in has exploded outrageously in my head, so there’s plenty more to come).  
> With thanks to Hitsu, a saint in sheep’s clothing, for her support when writing.
> 
> Elaine = f!England  
> Anneliese/Elise = Liechtenstein

**1898 in the Common Era, 832 years after the Divide  
Blaventa, the Kingdom of Spades**

 

 

They call Blaventa the flying city, the soaring heart of the industrial Kingdom of Spades. The name is a misleading one since, technically, Blaventa _floats –_ or _parts_ of it do, at least. The islands that hold the Great Temple of Spades, the Larhus, and the Glass Palace float, apparently quite serenely, above the smoke and urban sprawl of ‘true’ Blaventa beneath, like something from a dream. The ethereal effect is only made _worse_ when fog rolls thick and silent over the city, the people of Blaventa wading through the clouds curling on their streets by patches of golden gas-lights, wondering whether today is the day that the anchors holding the floating islands to earth, the royal glass roads and magic older than the kingdom itself, finally snap, whether today the dream-islands will drift away, back through the fog and the lamplight to whoever dreamt them.

Upon a floating island in the flying city or not, Arthur, Queen of Spades, feels no closer to the stars than the times when he has both feet flat on _terra firma._ When the sky is clear the stars are always small and distant and beautifully cold, whether Arthur is in the palace, looking out at them from his bedroom window, studying their paths in the observatory at the Larhus, or down on the cobbled main streets of Blaventa, guarding his pockets and craning his head back to look at the dark night sky. The lights of earth swallow out the stars – the brightness of fires and mage-lights, the new Spadian gas-lamps that flicker and hiss – and _people_ drown out any messages the stars might occasionally whisper from the vastness of space.

The Mirrored Hall is full of people that night, a welcome ball for the visiting Diamant delegation and their new king in full swing. Leaving his duties to his King and Jack, Arthur _has_ to slip away from it all halfway through the night, just (he swears) for half an hour; it has been a long day of political pleasantries and now, between the crowds, music and champagne, his head is _pounding._

It is customary for each kingdom and its allies on the Quadre continent to fête each of the Three’s new representatives when they are first Chosen to be a ruler, whether it be a King, Queen, or Jack. Unfortunately (for those weary of partying), the four kingdoms that divide Quadre between themselves, Hearts, Spades, Clubs and Diamonds, are all currently at peace, and have been for a while.

When _Arthur_ had been crowned Queen of Spades, he had had to face events thrown in his honour in all four kingdoms, grinning and bearing his way through his first stumbling foray into international relations, his wise (and _gracious,_ she pointedly reminds him) King, Elaine, on one side, and his (not as serene as he pretends to be) Jack, Yao, on the other. Now it is the new King of Diamonds’ turn – and, in celebration of his coronation, he, his Queen, and their entourage have flooded the Glass Palace of Spades with the soft susurrance of the Diamant accent, Spadian hallways suddenly all in an unfamiliar _flutter_ with the fans and handkerchiefs of people dressed in shades of soft buttercup through to sunburnt orange.

Only half a day of them being there and already Arthur is growing sick of the _sight_ of yellow _,_ too accustomed now, after his many years in the Spadian capital, to the evening blues and deep purples that mark out his own Court and countrymen. And tonight is just a _welcome_ ball. _Tomorrow_ sees the start of the true celebrations for Diamond’s King: a visit to the Great Temple, a festival in the streets of Blaventa, and a grand banquet and ball the night afterwards that will only end with the dawn. Frankly, Arthur is exhausted just _thinking_ about it all – not that that is so difficult a thing to _be_ , since he’d been tired even before news had reached the palace that the train carrying the Diamant Court had pulled into the capital’s station.

Tired, like his King and Jack, of overseeing the events that would entertain their guests whilst they were in Spades.

Tired, like his King and Jack, of arranging accommodations for the people of Diamonds, shifting quarters around the Glass Palace so everyone would be roomed suited to their rank.

Tired, like his King and Jack, of organising security for both their guests and their own people (it simply wouldn’t _do_ for someone to end up injured and there be a diplomatic incident).

Tired, alone despite the knowing looks of his King and Jack, in his head and heart, because their guests, because their _guest of honour,_ even, he –

The stars glitter like tiny diamonds in the night sky as Arthur looks up to them, a balcony overlooking the Clockwork Gardens offering him some respite from the dancing crowds at the ball. Distant little diamonds, far from Blaventa, far from Spades. As they _should_ be, for the stars are suns and, brought down, brought close, would burn Spades and everyone within it, burning away the magic and the life of both people and earth.

…Weavers, champagne makes him _maudlin_. Arthur can hardly return to the ball in such a mood; his King seems quite taken with the young darling that is Arthur’s Diamant counterpart, Queen Anneliese of Diamonds, and is apparently determined to mother the girl throughout the ball (and, most likely, the rest of her stay in Spades). Were Arthur to cause the younger Queen’s smile to falter in the slightest with his own low spirits Elaine, never mind their guests and anyone’s reputation, would probably rap him with her fan – and the woman is _lethal_ with a fan, Arthur and his frequently-bruised knuckles can attest –, and then they would _both_ be in for a (long) lecture later from their Jack, Yao, for being so impolitic.

“You ran away before the waltz, and yet I had been so _sure_ I had claimed that place upon your dance card.”

A voice speaks behind Arthur and all the timepieces in the Clockwork Gardens cease to tick – or perhaps, Arthur temporarily ceases to hear them, his back stiffening as blood rushes to his head. He turns – his neck feels stiff as a wind-up doll but that must be a fallacy; he must have moved fast for he has yet to hear another _thud_ in his skull of his own heart’s beat – and the stars blur with the movement as his vision swims.

It is not for long. The world sharpens again with Arthur’s _guest_ as its focus, Francis, the new King of Diamonds, standing in the balcony’s open doorway like the centre of a complicated spell Arthur might be building in his mind, some wild magic’s binding key.

Ever the opportunist for dramatic and aesthetic effect, the light is all behind Francis. It gilds him in amber, outlines his slow expectant steps towards Arthur and shows more of the shadows than the brightness of the new monarch’s smile. This –

This is not good. Perhaps (there is no perhaps) it had been absurd of Arthur to wish to avoid seeing this man, the newest ruler Chosen by the Three, at a ball Arthur was partially responsible for _throwing_ for him. And yet –

And yet.

(His heart beats, and the timepieces all tick again.)

“…Queens,” Arthur says carefully, coolly, his chin rising as he draws poise as armour about him, “do not have dance cards.” And he is quite certain he promised a waltz to _no-one,_ anyway.

King Francis just laughs at him. It is not an unkind laugh – Arthur knows Francis well enough to know how he is when he is _unkind –_ but it ruffles Arthur’s feathers all the same. To be laughed at. To be placed, once more, in the sort of trouble that has Francis (a dangerous creature who is now, simply, _Francis of Diamonds_ ) laughing near _him._

“But Kings, as you _must_ know,” says Francis, and Arthur hates it for his tone is playful, Francis and his familiar too-handsome face (they will have that face on a third of all the coins in the Diamant kingdom before the year is out) still drawing closer. They cannot do this, “have obligations. Especially at balls.”

“Oh, is there a _ball_ going on?” Arthur’s question escapes him a little more sharply than he had intended, sarcasm putting another layer between him and Francis’ approach. The other man could never take a hint – or let the suggestion of one ever deter him from whatever goal he had laid in his sight. “I can’t say I noticed.”

Unfortunately, Francis seems to have become immune to sarcasm – or simply more patient for dealing with Arthur’s particular brand of it, parrying or deflecting the words flung his way with an ease borne of familiarity. (Familiarity breeds contempt.) _Damn_ him.

Francis’ smile twists up more wryly (those delicate in constitution or with their corsets laced too tight could _swoon_ at the sight of it, and Arthur, Arthur must deal with a sudden _flood_ of fluttering butterflies that batter against the cage of his ribs and laces, too swift and too many for him to catch in haste and swiftly crush). “That is because, my darling,” and Arthur is too aghast at the butterflies to immediately protest the _darling,_ too distracted by Francis stepping out of the building’s shadow into starlight, all the tiny diamonds on the Diamant monarch’s rings, in his ears, on the tiny buttons of his yellow-silk waistcoat, glittering, “unless someone is prodding you along from behind about these things, you have all the social intuition of a _rock_.”

The butterflies perish in a brisk wintry blast. Arthur scowls, a prickle of irritation twisting down his spine, down his dominant arm to gather like static in the palm of his hand, spiking with the pounding of his head. “A reminder that this rock could _flambé_ you, you bearded bastard.”

How simple it is to fall into the old pattern.

Francis is close enough Arthur can see his eyes, pupils blown wide without the gas-lights in them, gleam as blank-black as the eyes of the statues in the Great Temple. (Surely, it is bad luck to be crowded so close to an idol?) “Not without starting a war.”

Between their kingdoms _and_ between their families.

…A man can dream. Arthur shakes his hand at his side, stretches out his fingers until the static dissolves back into his skin, fades harmlessly into flesh and air. “Somehow you make the prospect of burning you to a crisp so _delightful_ that war would be a worthy price to pay for the vindication.”

“You _are_ a beautifully vicious little thing, aren’t you?” Francis asks, a question that is not a question, his voice still carrying its thread of earlier laughter. He reaches out, and Arthur’s scowl deepens when Francis touches his upper arm, gloved palm sliding slightly up and down the fabric of Arthur’s dress coat before his fingers curl about the curve of muscles there. Coaxing, like _Arthur_ is the wild creature here. “Come back to the ball, Arthur. We should dance.”

They should do many things, but Arthur would not put _dancing_ at the top of the list.

Francis continues: “I have danced with my people. I have danced with _your_ people; I have danced with your Jack – though I think he begrudged it –, and I have danced with your fair King.” His grip tightens on Arthur’s arm, though his thumb rubs soothingly through the cloth. “Your King who has stolen my Elise, by the way, and exhausted the poor girl by taking at least a dozen dances from her. Were _I_ not to take even as half as many with _you_ , their opposites, I should be thought a shame to my kingdom.”

The Diamant people are ridiculous, and scarcely Arthur’s concern. But they lead to a safe topic. “Elaine cannot help but spoil Queen Anneliese, I think,” he says. “She – Anneliese, that is. Were she not one of the Chosen, she wouldn’t have even made her debut into society yet, would she?”

“She is still a year shy of the usual age,” Francis confirms, before adding rather melodramatically, “and _oh,_ doesn’t her brother like to remind me of it. I corrupt the innocent, you know.”

“Do you expect me to disagree?” asks Arthur, tone now perfectly pleasant.

“You malign me,” says Francis, though he hardly seems hurt by it. Indeed, it actually seems to _encourage_ him, since he steps close enough that the tips of their boots are almost brushing, bracketing Arthur between his body and Arthur’s own stubborn refusal to give any ground to the new King of Diamonds by backing up. _Ah._ He starts, “Do you think-”

And Arthur interrupts him, _“Entirely_ more than you do,” and rolls the arm Francis has taken from him back in its socket, a blatant silent request for Francis to let _go._ (He doesn’t want to know what Francis would have asked him, not when Francis is so (too) close.) If someone sees them – “There are people at this party with daguerreotypes, you know.” Dreadful technology.

Francis doesn’t take the hint, still intent on making things difficult for the both of them. “Oh, the _horror._ I shall have to be very still whilst I am being scandalous then, to make sure they catch it without blurring.” Wouldn’t the newspapers adore _that_.

“Perhaps I should’ve been more specific.” Arthur looks aside, at the gardens. The bushes, moving in the wind, could easily hide an amorous couple eloping from the ball, an avid spectator looking up to the balcony above for a story to gossip about to the reporters. “There are _mages_ at this party with daguerreotypes.”

Magic, such a wonderful tool for speeding things up.

“Ah,” says Francis. “…Yes, that does make things a trifle more concerning. Can’t you erect some sort of magical barrier to make them look away?”

Arthur wrinkles his nose, and looks back to him. “And have everyone asking why the Queen of Spades secluded himself in an opaque magical barrier with the new King of Diamonds?” And here he had always assumed his companion had _some_ semblance of a brain.

Francis sighs, sounding entirely put-upon. “I shall simply have to seduce you very discreetly then.”

“You shall do _nothing_ of the sort.” Since Francis has already expended his _hint_ quota for the evening, Arthur simply _yanks_ his arm back from the other’s grasp, stepping – not back – to the side rather irritably to put a little more space between him and the Diamant monarch. He had _known_ Francis would make things difficult – again – with a crown upon his head, known that in his heart of hearts, but still Arthur had _hoped_ that they might be able to reach _some_ sort of professional working relationship, moving past their history and to, perhaps, even a cordial friendship. For the sake of their kingdoms.

“ _Arthur,_ ” Francis says, as cajoling as his _my darling,_ enough to make Arthur’s headache throb with the memory of dozens of nights where he’d twisted in bed at its murmur in his ear behind him. “Things have changed.”

Arthur stays firm. “Some things have stayed the same.” _Enough_ things, surely. “You’re a King now. Of Diamonds. I am the Queen of Spades. Imagine what people would say.”

Francis airily waves the comment aside. “Hence my call for discretion -”

“Francis, it was hard enough being discreet when only _one_ of us had a crown!”

Francis seems slightly taken aback by Arthur’s outburst, a frown twisting up the smooth surface of his face, putting all the silvered strands of his hair in disarray. He reaches for Arthur again. “You never said -”

Arthur deliberately steps back from him, his stomach roiling with the motion like a ship on a stormy sea.

“You never said,” says Francis again, though, now, _now_ his frown twists his mouth into something sharper at the edges. Understanding.

No, Arthur had never said. When Francis had been with him, it had been hard to find time to pause as Francis had swept them both along in madness. And when Francis had been _away,_ the hollow knot in Arthur’s heart had choked the common sense out of him before it could reach Arthur’s brain.

Arthur doesn’t say anything still, and Francis’ expression locks into place with that sharpness still in it, knife-mouthed, stone-eyed, and glittering with diamonds, cold, dead stars. A harpy of the air. (Francis was always good at looking like something out of legend, a creature from the oldest fairytales people didn’t even like to whisper about at night.)

“As you will it, then,” says Francis, and, though it is still at least an hour shy of the time, it feels to Arthur as though the world that is the balcony above the Clockwork Gardens has struck midnight. The King of Diamonds straightens, deliberately, before stiffly offering Arthur his arm. “If I may have the honour of escorting you back to the ball, Queen Arthur?”

Francis does not say it, but they both know that Arthur will still have to dance with him. Talk to him. Negotiate with him. Entertain and be entertained by him, since their official roles as the King of Diamonds and the Queen of Spades mean they cannot _not_ interact. And they will have to do it at this ball, and the next ball, and every time they meet in the future, at each international ceremony and diplomatic meeting. Until one of them stops being a monarch.

Since being one of the Chosen is a lifetime commitment, until one of them dies.

Arthur still has a terrible headache. It doesn’t look like it will be going away anytime soon – his escape has just led to confrontation, confirmation of exactly what he _hadn’t_ hoped for – and the music from the ball (from his duty and obligation) throbs through the hallways of the Glass Palace, though Arthur’s mind and chest, filling both until there is room for nothing else.

“It will be my pleasure,” he says in the same blank voice Francis had used to issue his invitation, and takes the King of Diamond’s arm.


End file.
